Forget, forgot, forgotten
by Shrizyne
Summary: An unusual experience for a human, might be more common, or statistically more likely to happen in the longer lifespan of a nation. Going to bed as a man and waking up as a woman is not one of them. Follow Norway on his quest for answers, as he wades through the initial panic, governmental confusion, and overprotective siblings, while trying to turn back to his original body.
1. Coffe does not always solve problems

Chapter One,

 **Coffee does not solve all problems**

Norway's usual morning routine consists of waking up, putting on a pair of knitted slippers, somehow find his way to the kitchen, turn on the coffee pot and stare intently at is as if that would make the coffee brew faster, then swallow the coffee as if his life depended on it. Coffee first, everything else second, and then coffee again. Simple.

After the first cup of coffee, he might have a shower, or check his e-mail. Maybe he will make breakfast, a slice of bread with brown cheese or liver paste and gherkin. Then drink a cup of coffee, read the newspaper, check his calendar, and look through his post. All those normal things that normal people tend to do on normal mornings.

However, some days are different. Sometimes the difference is annoying, but common enough. Having guests, for example. An unfortunate consequence of having family or friends is that you interact with them, and sometimes, when they are persistent enough, the interaction might take place over several days, between which those very same individuals simply will not be bothered by finding an alternate place to stay. They will, in other words, occupy the home of the person they perceive as their host, or, as they so quaintly dub it, have a sleepover.

One might find those guests on sofas, on floors, in chairs, beneath tables, in the bathroom, or even in the kitchen, and all too often in various stages of undress and nursing headaches, nausea, broken bones, or other maladies generally associated with excessive drinking, fighting, or family game nights. The rooms that have been used tends to be more disorganised, yet after the guests leaves the situation corrects itself, hence he would not be too bothered those visits. Besides, though they often were loud, annoying, and obnoxious, they could also be very entertaining.

Nevertheless, when one has lived long enough, there will be mornings that are extraordinarily abnormal. In most cases a person wakes up as the same person they were when they went to sleep. Most people never have a lifechanging revelation coming to them in a dream, that somehow changes their entire life. Usually they wake up as the same person, maybe their hair is dishevelled, maybe they have fallen ill overnight, but the changes are seldom radical enough to cause panic.

On the other hand, one simply must acknowledge the fact that anthropomorphic representations of nations are not normal, consequently, abnormal happenings will befall them. Thus, an incident that is deemed an unusual experience for a human, might be more common, or statistically more likely to happen in the averagely longer lifespan of a nation. Still, this situation, even considering the finer details of statistics and whatever other nonsense and humbug humans comes up with, must surely be abnormal.

Generally, nations and humans alike, expect to wake up with the same body they went to sleep in. Now, there are people who chooses to change their physical body to better suit their minds, but in those cases, they are aware of it and it is a process, which normalises the situation. Going to sleep with something between one's legs, and waking up with two somethings on one's chest instead, is not normal.

Having worked through that line of reasoning, Norway looked down his chest again. The lumps were still there, as was the conspicuous lack of something between his legs. There was only one appropriate response to this kind of situation. Norway went to refill his cup, deciding that thinking of something else might make the … condition… go away.

Three cups later the coffee pot was empty, and his little problem was still not gone.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Author's note:

I've got a new story up, obviously. This is supposed to be a story with several chapters, none of which will be one-shots. This is a first for me, and we'll see how it goes. I do have a plot, but I would like to ask for your input. Who do you think would be the first to notice that Norway is a girl? It could be anyone, but probably someone from Northern Europe or North America, use your imagination and tell me please?

Please follow and review.

På gjensyn,

Shrizyne


	2. More coffee isn't always the solution

Even though it should be.

Often, Norway thought, when faced with a problem, restating the facts helps. He looked down at the paper in front of him.

· 6:00, woke up

· 6:10, noticed changes after a cup of coffee

· Waited 1 hour, no change

The list was simply not helpful. A quick glance at the clock told him he would be late for work if he did not leave soon. He hated calling in sick, it made him feel like a slacker, but he did not have another option. He might have gotten away with it a decade earlier, told them he was an assistant, or something to that effect. However, the security was tighter after 22. July, especially since he suddenly was considered a very important person. Or maybe it was because it took so long to locate him in the immediate confusion after the attack…

Anyhow, the result was the same, someone was bound to notice his change of gender, and either stop him, or bring him in for… Questioning? He had no idea what they would do. Calling in sick, he decided, was a decent short-term solution. E-mailing England and Romania would also be a good idea, in case they had messed up something. There was not much more he could do. Had he been in one of his older houses he would have looked through books on magic, but his Oslo apartment lacked the proper aura for such activities.

Going outdoors was not an option, not until he had proper clothing. Hopefully that would not be necessary, though he would have to find a belt for his trousers, and something to tie up his newly acquired assets with. Also, a bigger shirt, lest he pops a button. He shuddered, and immediately regretted it as the lumps jiggled. This body was extremely uncomfortable, how in all days* did half his population put up with this for their entire lives?

After the messages were sent, he spent ten minutes convincing the government that his illness had no effect on the nation at whole. Then another fifteen reassuring his secretary that everything was indeed fine, and that no, his voice was completely normal, and any change was probably due to the sickness. When the call ended, he had no illusions about her believing him. Bless the lady, but she was a very motherly woman, and scarily adept at reading him. It would not be above her to trop up at his apartment to make sure he was taking care of himself and eating enough good food. Normally, he would not turn down a home-cooked meal, but desperate times call for desperate actions.

He was halfway through the second pot of coffee when England's reply came. The Brit denied having done anything, and suggested he ask the "bloody idiot of a Romanian". The Romanian's message ticked in about one cup of coffee later, and boiled down to the same. Not me, probably the other guy. Which did help him cross them off the list of suspects, assuming this was not a natural phenomenon, but he would have preferred one of them being the culprit.

There were a few other nations who believed in, or knew of magic, but none, to his knowledge, who practiced it. Belarus had the Sight, but had not shown any aptitude towards the Arts. Iceland had his demons and folkloric beasts, but cared not for the rest. The US did presumably only have the Sight on All Hallows Eve, and was much too terrified by the notion of the supernatural to be considered. Both Romania's and England's families practiced magic, but were unlikely to try anything like this. He had his suspicions about Canada's abilities, but again, he was unlikely to do something like this.

Overall, not very helpful. Without knowing exactly, or even approximately what happened, he could not do anything about it, at least not until he had more knowledge about exactly how far the changes to his body had been. The non-magical equivalent would be prescribing random doses of medicine to treat a symptom, without knowing what sickness it was, nor knowing all the symptoms. Essentially, he would run the risk of doing the magical equivalent of assuming a headache means brain tumour, and initiate an open brain surgery with no concrete proof. Besides, like combining different drugs, casting several curses on the same person can have unexpected side effects.

If the person responsible was not a nation, and assuming humans either do not know enough magic, or lacks knowledge of his existence, then the natural conclusion would be that the offender was a mythological or folkloric in origin. Also, the field of suspects could probably be narrowed down to Norse mythology and Scandinavian folklore, and even further by eliminating any person or creature unable to attain magical powers.

Unfortunately, this left quite a large number of creatures, a number that was not brought down by eliminating anyone he had not angered at least once during his lifetime. Let's be realistic. He had been a wild youth raised by himself during the Viking Age, an era in which he had technology and skills superior to all others around him, apart from Sweden and Denmark, and together with them he ruled the sea. Unlike his fellow Scandinavians, he was not all that interested in land or colonies, in fact, just about everything he did was for money and adventure. Under such conditions, pissing off people is quite easy. Also, fun.

Norway sighed and refilled his cup again, preparing another pot of coffee before picking up his cup and leaving the kitchen. Moving around was awkward, it made the physical changes painfully obvious. Moreover, as he discovered when he looked down into a drawer, his hair had grown long enough to get in his eyes, and when he straightened again it brushed by his shoulders. By the time he had found finished his cup of coffee, found a too-large shirt, a bandage, a belt and made his way into the bathroom, his hair had grown another ten centimetres (around four inches, for those who prefer Imperial metrics).

The person in the mirror was not him anymore. Everything else had faded away when he caught a glimpse of himself in that accursed truth-teller. Tunnel-vision, a fascinating phenomenon, as is detachment. It was a bit like watching a muted video of someone playing a game in first-person view. The arm was moving, logically it was his, and thus his brain exercised some degree of control over it, but he could not consciously affect his actions. He watched it fumble around, before it got hold of a pair of scissors and chopped off the offending hair. Looking down at the hair that had fallen in the sink, he noticed that the ends were much darker than the new-grown hair. It probably held some significance, but at that point the world, sounds, smells, sensations, returned to him all at once, and he was made acutely, excruciatingly aware of how exhausted he was.

Shaking, feminine hands, his hands, dropped the scissors to the floor. The clattering sound of them hitting the tiles rang unnaturally loud in the too-bright room. His heart jumped at the sound, and beat a frantic rhythm. His breath picked up pace to match that of the heart, and his vision narrowed. As panic set in, he fled for the safest place he knew, unsteadily crashing into two walls while making his way to the bedroom. Once there, he staggered towards the unmade bed and made a pathetic attempt at launching himself in under the covers. In the end, he crawled into the bed, clumsily dragged the duvet over his head and kicked it sluggishly in place until his legs and feet were covered as well.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Notes:

The expression "in all days" is marked with a star, because "i alle dager" is a Norwegian expression equivalent of "what the heck" and "what in the world", and expresses confusion or disbelief.

I've mentioned Canada, because of course he remembers Canada. Come on, the World Championship in hockey was what, a month ago? Our team might not be too good, but we can certainly cheer on the Swedes, unless they are playing against Iceland or us, that is.

If the second half of this chapter confused anyone, it can be explained quite easily. It's simply the effects of trauma. According to my source, trauma can happen when an event occurs suddenly, and the person it happens to feels unprepared and helpless. It can worsen if the traumatised person feels alone, or has experienced traumatic events earlier in their life. Source: cascadebh com/behavioral/trauma/signs-symptoms-effects (8/6-17)

Author's Note:

This was supposed to be up on Sunday, obviously it wasn't. Sorry about that, but it couldn't really be helped. As a band-aid on the wound (now how do you put that in English, someone please help me) this chapter is twice as long as the last. I think I may be able to update every second week or so, but no promises. So... yeah.

I'm gonna go back to the crime/thriller thing. "Midnattssol", new Swedish-French thriller. I recommend it, if you can find it.

Review, follow and favourite

-Shrizyne


	3. Trying to keep one's mind occupied

Chapter Two: Trying to keep one's mind off the matter is a temporary solution

at best, because problems doesn't just disappear when you ignore them.

He spent the next day in bed, shifting between fitful sleep, and panicked wakefulness. Hyperventilating, sobbing and trying to rip out his hair, scratching at his skin because it was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong

He woke early on the morning of the third day. The awakening was sudden, startling. One moment he was asleep, the next he was sitting up in the bed, gasping for air with a racing heart. The dream, nightmare, faded as his mind once more wrestled control from sleep. While sitting up, he detachedly noted that his body had still not returned to normal. His body froze at the realization, but on the internal count of one, two, three, he sat up fully and slipped on his slippers.

After that, the morning followed his usual routine. One, two, three, he stood up and walked to the kitchen. The motions of preparing coffee were automatic, and he sighed in relief as the machine clicked on. As the aroma of coffee spread in his kitchen, he breathed in deeply, and let out yet another sigh. One, two, three to a cabinet, he pulled out one of those 'size matters' coffee mugs. A gift from Denmark, a reference to the song. One, two, three, cup on the table, one two three, open the pantry door.

He spread the butter evenly across the slice of bread, in a practiced and controlled manner. Then he sliced the brown cheese, and placed the three perfectly cut slices on the buttered piece of bread. He ate slowly, taking the time to chew each bite properly, before swallowing it all down with more coffee. By the law, he was granted three self-reported sick days, anything beyond that and he would need a doctor's note, which obviously was not an option. He had already wasted two days on pointless blubbering, which left him two options. Sometime during the next twenty four hours he would have to morph back into his own body, or he would go back to work still trapped in female form.

He reached up to finger comb his hair, but stopped his hand with a sigh. That was a reminder he did not need. It felt strange, feeling so alienated from his body, and it was his body, no doubt about it. He still received sensory information in much the same way as he had always done, but it was … different. In a very, very feminine way, so much so, it was almost as though it was done on purpose. As if this, this form had been designed to be as aggravatingly and completely female as possible. Either that, or just female. Strange, is it not, how females tend to be more… feminine, than males.

Anyhow, there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do without leaving his flat, and he could not leave looking like this. Not that he looked bad, from what he remembered of the quick look in the mirror the former evening, this new body was objectively attractive. Being objectively attractive did however not help at all, when he did not have any clothes that fit, hell, he didn't even have a hairbrush! He may not be the vainest of nations, but even he had pride, and nothing bespoke lack of control more than a shabby appearance. It simply would not do.

This left him stuck inside, and God help him but his sanity would slip away if he could not find something to take his mind off the matter. Reading a book would not help, despite how inviting the thought of settling down with a cup of coffee, a book and a blanket sounded. Every single book in the flat was well-read, and reading would only provide his over-active emotions with an opportunity to wrestle control away from the logical part of his mind. Physical labour then. Indoor physical labour.

He sighed again, noticed how he had done so quite often lately, and sighed again, this time with a wry half smile. Repeating a mantra of one, two, three over and over again, he placed the used dishes in the dishwasher with swift, measured movements, all to the rhythm of one, two, three. Norway then wet a kitchen rag and wrung it, before scrubbing the kitchen table and counter in large, controlled circles. One, two, three, he thought, one, two, three. Drowning out all other thoughts until everything was one, two, three. Breathing, scrubbing, heartbeat, one, two, three. His mind was finally at peace, too preoccupied, too empty to escape the trance.

Then he ran out of countertop, and the rhythm was broken. Indecisiveness overcame him for a moment, and he felt a sudden acute need to hide away in his bed. With a brisk shake of his head he turned his mind to the task at hand, and wrenched open a kitchen cabinet. He emptied it, and carefully placed the contents on the clean countertop. He washed out the cabinet put everything back, making sure all boxes faced the same way. The same process was repeated with the rest of the kitchen's storage spaces, still to the rhythm of one, two, three.

The next hours went by quickly as he vacuumed, washed, and polished the entire flat. At five in the afternoon he was finally done with the cleaning, having done the walls and the ceiling, refolded all his clothes, changed the sheets on the bed, dusted off all … he sank down to the floor, exhaustion finally catching up to him. He had not eaten since breakfast, had not even paused for a cup of coffee, and that coupled with a night of bad sleep was enough for his muscles to throb with a painful, numb warmth. Tipping backwards he slid his legs out from underneath himself, and slowly stretched them out while leaning on a wall. He shut his eyes with a pleased sigh, another sigh, he thought with a breathy laugh.

When he opened his eyes, they fell on the bookcase and the books haphazardly stacked on its shelves. The untidy stacks of books of all colours and sizes made his back crawl and his fingers itch, and he tiredly heaved himself up from the floor, squashing another sigh before it passed his lips.

He stumbled a bit before he found his balance and turned back to the bookshelf. The longer he stared at it, the more it burnt, crawled, writhed, until he could stand it no more and in a flurry of movements, emptied the shelves and stacked the books on the floor. Dusting off the shelves was the easy part, but when time came to put the books back in place he froze, unable to decide how to sort them. Going by the author's family name is most common, though sorting them by size would be more aesthetically appealing. Perhaps by colour, or maybe grouping books on the same subject together. Publishing year was also an option, or maybe the age the plot was set to? Though the Dewey Decimal System did make a strong case, especially for the academic section of the shelves. Sorting them by the number of pages would spice things up a bit, and allow him to drag out the task even further, especially if he decided to count those blank pages in the beginning and the end too…

An unmeasured amount of time passed while he stood there frozen, before he placed all his academic books on the lower shelves, sorted after subject. The rest were sorted after the authors surnames. He finished, making sure that the backs of the books were all lined up straight, then he looked at the clock. Half past six. He'd missed both lunch and dinner, but truth to be told, he did not feel hungry. At all. He looked down at his body, and sighed again, noting with a breathy laugh that he had been doing that an awful lot lately. Still, as he had not magically, nor scientifically nor in any other way, returned to his real body he would have to find proper clothes, because he would be going to work the next day, whether he liked it or not.

Clothes shopping. Norway tried not to think about it, even as he entered the shop. He could feel the shop assistant glancing at him, but she soon averted her gaze politely, and let him browse in peace. He huffed, there was only so much peace one could feel when one was tortured in this fashion, honestly. With three deep, controlled breaths, he went to it. He picked out clothing that seemed to be about the correct size, tried it on, and found the right sizes. Then he tried finding something formal to wear, only to realize that there were no suits in the women's section of the shop. Now, what the hell does women wear for formal events? Apart from dresses that was, he was absolutely not ready for something like that.

He ended up with a white blouse, the neckline just a bit lower than he'd like, a pair of black trousers and suitable undergarments. He paused for a moment, then picked out another set, just in case. He paid for the items, sighing, again, in relief and blessing his people's tendency to not ask questions, and keep interaction to a minimum. Then he went home and mentally prepared himself for the next day.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Due to history, Norway would be devastated by losing control, and there are few ways to lose control more completely than to have your body altered without your consent. He is beginning to show signs of PTSD, which can cause people to develop sleeping problems, eating disorders or OCD. Nightmares, panic attacks and emotional disassociation can also be signs of PTSD. Please keep in mind that I am not an expert, and that google will give you just as accurate information as I will. If there is something I am doing blatantly wrong, please contact me.

In Norway every employee has the right to three days off work outside of holidays without needing a note from a doctor. Some people make individual contracts with their employers, some companies offer more as part of their standard contract, but everyone is guaranteed three days, so that's what I went with.

Author's not:

Eh heh... Remember how I said I would update every second week? Yeah, that was completely my fault, and I'm really sorry, summer holidays just took me by surprise this year. I honestly didn't realize they were so soon, and then I was off biking, and forgot my notes at home, so... Anyways, sorry for this being sort of a filler, and quite choppy, there will be some more stuff happening next chapter. Even, hopefully, interacting with other people. (Politicians, but they are people too you know.)

Anyhow,

Auf Wiedersehen,

-Shrizine


	4. Sometimes a problem won't just disappear

Chapter Four: **Sometimes a problem won't just disappear**

No matter how hard one tries to make it go away.

He woke up to the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of sweat-soaked sheets clinging to his skin. His heart was racing, and he heaved after breath as if he had just finished a marathon. Almost felt like he had, too, the muscles in his arms and legs protested as he went through his routine. He ignored it. He was good at ignoring insignificant details, like how his too small hands shook when he filled the coffee maker with water, or the annoying bounciness of certain assets, or his hair tickling his neck and weighing down his head. Yup. He was ignoring it. Still ignoring it. Absolutely. No noticing here. Oh no, not at all. With an annoyed growl he left the kitchen, only to turn back in a hurry to check that the window was properly closed, then left again, turning off the lights as he went.

Locking the door was easy, force of habit, as was turning on the shower. However, standing there with his hands clenched around the hem of his undershirt was terrifying. In an oddly removed manner he noted how he drew short, sharp, panicked breaths, how a weight squeezed around his heart and a lump swelled in his throat so that he gagged over it. He could almost see how his eyes widened, and his skin paled.

Pathetic, he thought, contemptuously spitting the word at himself. Can't even undress yourself. He closed his eyes, and completely failed at bringing his breathing back under control, but ignored it in favour of slowly counting. One. He was going to do it; the count had started. Two. No backing down. Panicked breaths, almost sobs now, echoed off the tiled walls. Three, he wrenched off the shirt, letting it drop from stiff fingers and clumsily pushing down his pyjama bottoms and boxers.

Water thrummed against his face as he kept his gaze up, away from his body. Streams ran down his nose and cheeks, washing away tears as he indulged in emotion, knowing the splatter of water on tiles would drown out his pitiful sniffles and shaky sobs. Oh, how he hated crying. Uncontrollable body-shaking sobs, constantly heaving for air, even the feeling of tears running down his cheeks annoyed him. Crying was an embarrassingly uncontrollable way of announcing ones' innermost feelings to the world.

He did not bother bringing his cup to the table, simply downed his coffee where he stood, and refilled it. He had asked his secretary to drive him to work, knowing that she would not ask unnecessary questions, even in a situation like this. He had also set up a meeting with the Director of PST, and the Prime Minister. By e-mail, of course, informing the PST Director that they would need the aM procedure.

He entered the meeting room perfectly aware of himself. His posture was perfect, his steps sure as he noticed the three people in the room and promptly ignored two of them, as per procedure.

"Morning Benedicte," he greeted, and prepared himself for the interrogation that would follow. It was protocol, a set of questions to make sure he was who he claimed to be, and not some impersonator. Granted, it had been set up in case of espionage, or in case he ever was gruesomely disfigured in an accident, but it certainly proved useful in this situation too.

"How are you?" Polite greeting in the English-speaking world. Trick question.

"My father is in hospital and my cat just died." Personal problem, a problem affecting the entire nation would be 'my father died and my block of flats burnt down', or something along those lines. The greying man to his right jotted down something on his pad.

"How would you describe someone's effort to become better than Norway?"

"Like jumping after Wirkola."

"Where were you?" 'When Brå broke his pole?'

"In the stadium, watching like the rest of the sane world."

"Margrete."

"A hell of a woman," he answered with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Pretty," he added as an afterthought, having admitted during the making of these questions that he'd had a slight crush on the Queen. Queen with capital Q. He could see by the slight hesitant in the greying man's writing, that it was not enough. "Lady King of the Union. Pity her dream was destroyed by incompetent fools."

"Battle of Bergen?"

"The most fun I'd had in ages." And so on and so forth. There were entirely too many questions, and his eyes were burning for lack of sleep, but this was a matter of national security in all senses of the phrase, so he supposed he'd have to let it slide. Though they were being unreasonably protective. He had survived centuries on his own, and been just fine most of the time. Except for the starving and beatings and random injuries and shit. Oh well. Perhaps they did have reason to worry, but still. He let out a sigh when they finally finished, torn between being happy they cared, and annoyed at their concerned countenances.

"Do you have any idea how … this happened?" Bjørnland asked, gesturing in his general direction. He shook his head.

"No, at this point your guess is as good as mine," he lied, because he was not about to explain magic to these people. Unless he wanted to be kept under surveillance for his own security.

"Ah, more to the point," Bakken shot in, speaking slowly, as he was wont to do. "Is this," he furrowed his brow, "will this affect the rest of the country, people?"

"I have been like this for a couple of days now, we would have seen the effects by now," Norway answered, preparing to lie again. "Besides, I think the explanation might be a bit more innocent than that." Blatant lie, though he glanced at his prime minister to make sure she was paying attention. "We nations are affected by our people, and the government represents the people. There have never been more women in positions of power, and that could have caused my change." The humans nodded along, but did not look completely convinced. Which was fine, as long as they did not think he was bullshitting the entire thing. Then again, why would they? They already had to accept that he was a practically immortal anthropomorphic nation, and knew they were out of their depth.

"Very well then," Bjørnland finally said. "You will need a female identity, passport, papers, job, the works. Pick a name now, and we will have everything ready in a couple of days, may he, she, have the rest of the week and Monday off?" the last was directed at Solberg, who nodded, looking overwhelmed at the entire ordeal. Norway almost felt bad for her, this was most definitively not what she signed up for.

"Have you decided on a name?" Bakken asked, looking up from his pad.

"Tea Kristine Olsen, born '94."

"Good. You will be assigned a security detail 24/7, and receive your passport this evening, have a good day." The PST leader and director swiftly exited the room, prime minister on their heels, all three ignoring Norway's spluttering protests. He groaned as the door shut behind them, letting his head thump against the table. A lifeguard. A baby-sitter. He had a fucking nanny looking after him. He tensed as the door was opened quietly, but relaxed as soft steps made their way over to him. Straightening up to accept a warm, white cup, inhaling the life-giving scent and smiling at his secretary.

"You're a lifesaver," he said. She huffed.

"You certainly need it, the way you gallivant about. Getting in barfights, joining bands, changing genders and I don't know what! You'll be the death of me, just you wait, one day you will show up at my door at three in the morning and I'll have a heart attack."

"Need I remind you that you followed me to many of those pubs?" he wondered out loud, teasingly reminding her of the less than conservative behaviour of her twenty-year-old self.

"Oh, shush. Anyhow, I have moved or cancelled all of your meetings, except for one with Sweden tomorrow, he was very insistent on meeting you in person." She ignored how Norway froze at the mention of his brother, and finished by telling him that "a gentleman is waiting outside, I take it he is your bodyguard?"

"Ah, yes. You couldn't cancel the one with Sweden?"

"I am afraid not, this is what happens when you don't keep in contact with family, they worry about you, you know."

Norway sighed again at the thought of his troublesome family, and groaned when he remembered that he needed to find somewhere for his bodyguard to sleep. And somehow keep himself from having another embarrassing meltdown. Bad enough having them with only himself around, but it would be absolutely mortifying having someone else watch as he lost control.

He was slightly cheered up when his secretary insisted on following him home and make sure he was fine and ate a proper dinner.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Notes:

How are you? - A Norwegian will probably not recognize this as a greeting, and rather answer the question.

Jumping after Wirkola - Bjørn Wirkola was a Norwegian ski jumper, and one of the best of his time. In ski jumping the best jumps last, and when Wirkola jumped second to last, it was almost impossible to get further than him. Thereof the saying.

Where were you when Brå broke his pole - a reference to the Men's cross-country skiing relay in 1982, where Norway and the USSR ended up sharing the gold medal after Oddvar Brå broke his pole on the last lap.

Margrete I - Queen of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, she was the one who designed the Kalmar Union. According to Wikipedia she was 'highly regarded in Norway, and respected in Denmark and Sweden.'

Battle of Bergen - Just a tiny battle fought in Bergen harbour between British and Dutch ships, with some aid from artillery on Bergenhus Fortress. The story around it is a bit funny, you should look it up.

Author's note:

This is sloppy. Sorry. It's about 2:40, so I'll keep this short.

Uh... yeah.

Night,

-Shrizyne

ps. review, and all that stuff.


	5. Coffee still does not solve the problem

Chapter five: Coffee still does not solve the problem

 _Or any problem, though it is a cure against sleep, and the drink of choice of various undead creatures_ [citation needed]

Usually the train ride between Stockholm and Oslo offered a couple of hours respite where he could get ahead on work. This time, however, he was much too exhausted to get anything done, and for some reason, he just could not fall asleep. He had tried everything; glaring at the chattering women until they realized half two in the morning was far too late (early?) for their blabbering, and retreated to another couch; glaring at the obnoxious teenager until he turned his music down to a reasonable volume; he had even tried glaring at himself for his failure at sleeping. All for naught.

It was all Denmark's fault. And Finland's, just a little bit, but mostly Denmark's. Iceland would have to take his fair share of the guilt too, for coming with the warning that set the two others off. It was mostly on Finland and Denmark and their ability to spin tales of horrible misfortune, and their tendency to egg each other on.

When a woman opened the door, his first thought was that he had somehow come to the wrong flat. Preposterous, yes, but he was very tired. (he could practically feel England glare and snarl "It's not very tired, you twit, it's exhausted.") So, like the responsible, adult person he was, he checked the nameplate on the door, and confirmed that he would never make such a silly mistake. Ever.

The woman was still standing in the door, looking even more tired (exhausted, snarled a British voice) than he felt. Maybe Lukas had a lover? He almost giggled at the thought. Almost. A testament to how tired he was. As it was, his frown only deepened as he stared at the woman. She almost seemed confused.

"Is Lukas here?" Sweden asked, making sure to enunciate properly, so that her sleep-addled mind would be able to process the Swedish intonation. He expected an answer, a nod, or a shake of the head at the very least, not her eyes widening in panic.

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A sharp rap at the door yanked Lukas from his fitful dozing. He groaned and rolled over, opening his bleary eyes to check the time. Blinking rapidly as the world, and the clock in particular, came into focus, and he realized that it was barely four forty-seven. He groaned again and made an honest attempt at flopping down on the bed, despite already laying prone, because 'almost five' was an ungodly hour, and no one should go around knocking at doors at such a time. Especially not considering the time he fell asleep at. He turned over again, punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and curled up, more than ready for sleep to claim him.

The demon of anti-sleep gave the door another sharp knock.

He groaned again, a drawn-out zombie-like grumble, and stepped into his slippers. A deafening silence lay in the flat like a heavy blanket, the click and quiet groan of the bedroom door rang out much too loud. He froze for a bit, then cursed at himself for being such a damned child, adults aren't afraid of opening their own bedroom's door. He carefully stepped out and slid the door shut behind him. He was cautious despite establishing that only children were afraid of the darkness in their own home, and barely kept from starting violently when he saw a man on his sofa, which was silly. There was, there had to be, a rational explanation for the man's presence… right. Bodyguard.

A sudden knock shot his heart so far up his throat he thought something was going to tear. His whole body locked itself, like a rabbit playing dead after being caught by a predator. Rabbits are cute, maybe he needed to go hunting soon, he hadn't ever had one for a pet, were they best served with sugar-browned potatoes, or was that duck? He was lucid enough to recognize when he digressed, but not to such a degree that he could focus on one thing, with the possible exception of the rather persistent knocking at the door. Really though, a hunting trip sounded absolutely divine.

He padded over the cold floor and opened the door, not knowing whom to expect, but quite ready to tell them off for disturbing him when all honest folk should be asleep in their beds. It never had occurred to him that Sweden would be more than five hours early for their meeting, nor that he had grown so tall. Come to think of it, why was he this tall? The Swede had always been taller than him, but he could not remember having to tilt his head this far back just to look him in the eye. Another peculiarity, he noted, was the confusion on Sweden's normally emotionless face. Then the other opened his mouth and spoke, shattering Norway's relatively tranquil morning mood.

"Is Lukas here?" he asked slowly, as if speaking to a half-wit. Norway was about to huff and give some snarky comeback when the question registered, he realized Sweden would see him as a female, and sort of just blacked out.

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Sweden was certainly no gentleman, England would hypocritically attest to that any day, but as soon as the woman began to fall he stepped forth and caught her. The instinctual reaction took him by surprise, and he scanned the hall for any witnesses before stepping inside, sliding the door shut and manoeuvring the unconscious woman so that he could lock the door behind him. He placed the woman in a chair, since the sofa was occupied by some man, and looked around. After confirming that yes, this was indeed Norway's apartment, he made himself at home in the kitchen as if he had the right to be there. Which he did, if one ignored the breaking, entering and accidentally causing one of the occupants to lose consciousness. It was more entering than breaking anyhow. Besides, if Norway really did not want them there, he should not have given them the address.

Regardless of what laws he may or may not be breaking, he made a pot of coffee, and went off in search for food. Because, again, he might be breaking some laws, but he had travelled a long way to do so, and deserved some food for his troubles. The coffeemaker pinged, and he turned to – SCREAM BLOODY MURDER (almost) because the not-so-unconscious lady was standing right behind him, looking like some blonde version of the kid from the ring and oh god she's going to murder him – oh, wait, she went for the coffee. Okay. That's good. Almost five fifteen in the morning, and he had managed to not get murdered by a coffee-drinking zombie. On the downside, a zombie just chose coffee over his brains, and while that could say something about the quality of the coffee, it could also say something about the undead thing's opinion on his intellect.

The blonde zombie-woman turned to him and broke his train of thought, which probably was for the best. She looked at him with big dead eyes, and slowly sipped her coffee ominously. It was rather interesting, he had not realized the act of drinking coffee could be so menacing. The undead thing carefully placed her cup on the counter and turned it so that the handle stood just so. Then she opened her mouth, and he half expected a buzzard of flies to swarm forth á la Dorkness Arising. Again, his expectations were crushed, as she came with an allegation so ridiculous, bizarre, and preposterous (also human) that it forced a startled cough-like laugh out of him. Eyes watering slightly in breathless, shocked amusement, which he hurriedly tried to squash while unhelpfully noting her cute Norwegian accent.

"Din konung pissade på dig," she stated in clear, accented Swedish.

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Translations:

Nah. I'll clear it up in the next chapter, and if you can't wait, then Google Translate should be available on your device provided you have access to an uncensored internet connection.

Notes:

There is a train from Stockholm to Oslo.

I've never written Sweden before, I don't have the patience to write Sweden-mumble unless he is actually mumbling, and I apologize for the long and awkward sentences of this chapter. Blame Tolkien and Hemingway for affecting my sentence structure. Anyways, back to how I imagine Sweden; he has this blank face, and does not talk a lot. This doesn't mean that he doesn't think, which is why he has one line in this chapter, and about 800 words of thoughts and reactions. Any and all comments are appreciated.

Author's note:

Where I come with my excuse. So...

Sorry. I did not intend to disappear. However, I can't promise that the next chapter will be out soon, in fact, it might not be out until after Christmas.

Hejdå,

-Shrizyne


	6. Girlproblems, beer, Danes and coffee

Chapter six: _Girlproblems and an almost-lack of coffee_

Denmark was in the middle of a rather nice breakfast, when the eerie tones of the Divine Comedy intruded on his cosy morning. It took him approximately twenty-six seconds to recognize it as this week's ringtone for Sweden. Those twenty-six seconds does incidentally correlate perfectly to the first time the name Sweden is mentioned in the song, but as we all know; correlation does not signify causation, so there. He could almost feel Norway slap the back of his head, and rubbed his hand through his hair to sooth the phantom pain. Then followed a rather hectic minute of trying to locate his phone in the slightly-less-than tidy, borderline cluttered living room of his flat (which absolutely was not a fire hazard). When he finally found it, he stumbled back to the kitchen table, almost tripping over a book that had somehow found its way underneath a rug, and magically avoiding stepping on any of the LEGO pieces on the floor. It's his secret superpower (which is not silly at all, any parent in the world would give just about anything to gain the ability).

He dumped down in his chair and took a fortifying swig of beer before answering the call.

"Hiya!"

"Good morning," Sweden began, and like usual, he didn't wait for a reply. "Norway is a girl, could you come to Oslo?" He half asked, half commanded, though it sounded more like a statement.

"Sure thing, man," said Denmark automatically, sipping his beer. The line was quiet for a moment before the words registered. When they did, Denmark tried to choke down the beer to answer, but swallowed wrong and coughed most of it out over his half-eaten meal. Sweden removed the phone from his ear and waited (im)patiently, slightly disgusted by the sounds coming from the other end. "'Scuse me, what did'ya say" asked Denmark, voice scratchy from the coughing fit.

"Ye heard me."

"I don't think I did," Denmark answered, shaking his head rubbing his watery eyes. He heard Sweden sigh.

"Just come," he said, followed by the beeping of an ended call. Denmark removed the phone from his ear to check that Sweden actually _had_ hung up on him, and wasn't just playing a recorded track of the beeping noise (wouldn't be the first time it happened). Nope, no ongoing call. Well then. He stared blankly at his now unappetizing breakfast (being sprayed with spit and beer does that to things).

It must've been a joke. Right? Only, Sweden doesn't joke like that. He usually messes around with the furniture, sabotaging it so that it collapsed at a certain weight, gluing it to the ceiling (wasn't that from a Roald Dahl book?), painting everything blue and yellow, stuff like that. One time, he switched every single piece of furniture in the World Meeting locale and the hotel they would use with kiddie stuff. Every single one. Seriously, it was amazing. The tables? Tiny, like the ones in doctors' offices with a box of Legos in the middle. Chairs, equally tiny, with cutesy flowers, apart from the ones in the cafeteria, which were high chairs. The beds were replaced with cribs. Fucking adult size cribs. He had even corrupted the staff and forced them into his nefarious scheme. It was awesome, but it would've been even better if the blame hadn't landed straight in Denmark's lap (seriously, he was the host, but they couldn't actually expect him to micro-manage everything). But anyways, not the point.

Norway. Girl.

Maybe he'd misunderstood, because sure, he was amazing, but sometimes Sweden didn't really manage to make himself understood. That must be it. Norway had girl-problems, and Sweden had failed at delivering the information.

He tilted his head back a bit and tried to imagine a bashful Norway trying to woo a woman. Then he had a flash-back to _the Cabin_ (I hope you like … SPAGHETTI!) and bit his lip to hold back laughter. After a few seconds of shaking with supressed laughter he realized that he was alone in the apartment, and there were no one to stop him from laughing at his neighbours. Which he did. Loudly.

Silence suddenly exploded as Denmark remembered one crucial detail. Sweden _asked_ him to come to Norway. Which meant that he could jump over the sea, annoy Norway, and blame Sweden for it all.

Forty minutes later, he was at the airport. It would've been faster taking the bus, but he was too impatient for the ten-minutes wait, and thusly took his bike instead. He locked his bike in the designated bike parking lot, and spent twenty minutes bouncing through airport security (at times literally) and driving a poor security guard to the brink of tears. The man had been tasked with bringing him safely and unarrested to the gate with minimal damage to their surroundings. Denmark arrived just as they closed the doors, and spent the next half-hour testing the patience of the cabin personnel. He was the first out of the aircraft, rushed through the controls and pushed his way through the crowd on his epic quest to get to the train on time. He made it, surprisingly and with a great grin, and crashed down in a seat. He wriggled a bit in the hard seat, and kicked his feet up to reach maximum relaxedness for the journey (totally a thing).

It lasted for a total of five minutes. He began tapping his fingers against the edge of the seat. Soon he was humming and nodding his head to _La det Swinge_ , which led to him belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs, much to the consternation of the other two passengers in the wagon. The 22 minutes journey to Oslo S was very, very long.

He bounded up the stairs of Norway's block, thunderous steps echoing off the walls in the stairwell, announcing for all the world (or at least this little part of it) that Denmark was coming. He stopped for a moment outside of Norway's door, but reasoned (yes, he does do that. Occasionally.) that anyone inside surely would've heard him already, and crashed through the door. He did belatedly realise that he might've destroyed the door, but a quick look at it revealed that it was from IKEA, and he decided it didn't really matter.

Looking around he noticed that the flat was squeaky clean. The disturbingly neat placement of the shoes along the wall guilted him into taking his own off and placing them down properly, instead of kicking them to Heimdall knows where. Usually Norway would have called out by now. He may keep his door unlocked when he's awake, but he does keep tabs on whoever comes and goes.

He happened upon Norway as soon as he stepped into the kitchen area. Well, he noticed Sweden first, because the sort of welcoming, sort of ' _I'd really like to kill you now'_ glare he gave was kinda difficult to miss. Really. Anyways, Norway was slumped over the kitchen table, in the exact same manner that he'd reprimanded Denmark for at the last Nordic Council session. He would've called him out on his hypocrisy, if he hadn't looked so tired and small… Also, now that he'd had a closer look at the guy…

"Norge, you really need a haircut." Norway snorted and lifted his head.

"Sweden," he said with a smooth, pleasant, disturbingly high pitched voice "I never thought I'd say this, but why can't you be more like Denmark?" And ya know, as pleasant this reaction was, compared to the expected 'fuck you' or 'shut up', it was also weird and Denmark found that he really wanted to know what Sweden had done.

"Hmpf," Sweden answered, in a 'are you kidding, I'm nothing like that idiot and you're off your rocker for wishing differently' kind of way. Denmark stared at Norway, who was now sitting on the chair in his usual straight-backed manner, bringing attention to a couple of new acquisitions. Which brought on the question:

"Are you trans?" Sweden choked on his coffee, which he deserved, because not offering a cup to guests is just plain rude. "Not that it's a bad thing man- shit sorry, what I meant was; what pronouns d'ya want ta use?" He was obviously blowing this; Norway's face had taken on an interesting shade of greenish white. "'Cause you've obviously had a procedure or summat, and it seems like a shame that people should just assume but I really don't wanna force ya into anything yer not comfortable with and I'll shut up now."

The silence was maddening, and Denmark shut his eyes in anticipation of the hit he knew would come.  
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Translations:

None, and I'm afraid I lied last chapter, if you're still patient enough to wait for the story behind that last Swedish sentence, then your patience might be rewarded next chapter. 'Might' being the operative word.

Notes:

Sweden is the only song by the Divine Comedy that I find tolerable. And I rather like the first part of it. Also, Denmark would be the kind of person who sets different ringtones to everyone on his contact list. And changes them regularly.

 _The Cabin_ is a song (with video) by the Ylvis brother, the same guys who made _What does the fox say_ which is possibly the most annoying song I've ever heard. It is hilarious though, and a remarkably accurate description of the common Norwegian cabin.

This is not my kind of music, which is why I'm not so enthusiastic about it, but I imagine Denmark would like it, or at the very least find it amusing. Also, the way I see it, Denmark is a bit oblivious, but he is good at finding new angles to most things and is generally open-minded and caring. And annoying, partially by choice.

Author's note:

So, I was right. This chapter is out after Christmas. The next update might take a while, because school and sleep and such things.

Yeah.

Review, follow, etc?

Merry Christmas, happy holidays, break, wintertime, and so on.

-Shrizyne


End file.
